


One less lonely night

by MorteMistrata



Series: Overwatch recall [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, One Night Stands, One night stand to relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata
Summary: Sombra and Mccree meet in a bar on Christmas, and for some reason, stay in touch long after their attempt at banishing loneliness passes. As Sombra becomes a full-fledged member of Talon, and Mccree answers the overwatch recall, they find themselves on different sides of the war, and yet, their lingering attraction doesn’t go away. As they fall deeper into their illicit relationship, each tries to sway the other into joining their side. In a battle of wills, who’s will win?





	1. Christmas eve

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please read and review (or else I'll probably focus on other stories and not update this one.) And feel free to check out my new tumblr: @overwatchworddump if you'd like to see more content, or would like to request something.

Sombra stares at her glass and wonders if wishing another glass of whiskey into existence is possible. It’s Christmas eve, and all of the tourists and fuckboys and ridiculous men who would normally supply her with a steady reserve of alcohol of her choice are gone; either back in the States, or in their hotel rooms, playing the role of a good, Christian father and husband to their neglected families. Good for them, not good for her. Coming back to Dorado is always a risk, one that Reaper continually tells her to stop taking, but it’s had to deny the homesickness that overtakes her when the holidays swing around once more. Besides, she’s smart enough to know how to keep people off her tail, and unfortunately, that means only spending physical money, of which she’d only brought a limited amount, rather than using her considerable horde of cryptocurrency. Who knew that five grand wouldn’t be enough for a week in her hometown? Not her, for sure.

 

Sombra sighs, and sits up. She’s lucky that she remembered to pay at the beginning of her trip, otherwise, she wouldn’t have had any money to pay for her room tonight. She’s spent the last of it here, in this dinky little bar on cheap whisky, which hasn’t even done its job of making her too drunk to remember that it’s Christmas and that she’s alone. She’d better head back to her room while her tab is still balanced. Maybe in the morning she can call in some favors from some of her old Los Muertos associates, and get enough cash to hold her over until the end of her trip. 

 

As she stands and stretches, her tunic shifting to reveal a thin band of her stomach to the warm air, the door chimes, and a cowboy saunters in. 

 

“Howdy,” He settles onto a stool at the edge of the bar, and she can tell that he’s used to these parts, despite obviously being an outsider. “Two shots of Mezcal, if you would.”

 

The bartender nods and starts to prepare his drinks. 

 

“You like Mezcal?” Sombra asks, surprised. Mezcal is a drink not for the faint of heart. Every time she hears an American order one, they sound hesitant, like they don’t know what they’re getting into, but the cowboy seems confident that he can handle the taste. 

 

“I like my liquor strong.” He replies as the bartender turns and sets two shot glasses down in front of him. He watches her from under the brim of his hat for a moment, and then slides one of the glasses over to the barstool next to his. “You look like the kind of girl who likes Mezcal. Am I right?”

 

Sombra grins, and shifts to sit beside him. “You are, Cowboy. Cheers.” She clinks the glass against his and downs in a single gulp. It burns horribly on the way down, but Mezcal has the kind of taste you have to learn to love, and she’d learned years ago to enjoy it’s smoky taste. 

 

The Cowboy slides their glasses back towards the bartender, and motions for a refill. He leans back against the bar, and drawls, “So what brings a nice lady like you to a place like this on Christmas eve? Don’tcha have family to be with or somethin’?”

 

“Or something.” Sombra repeats wryly. She draws the outline of a skull with the condensation left on the bar, and scoots another shot closer to her . “And you’ve got me all wrong, vaquero. I am  _ not  _ nice, and most certainly am  _ not  _ a lady.” With that, she picks up the shot and tosses it back, this time savoring the taste and burn before it goes down her throat.

 

“Hmph.” The cowboy says before picking up his own glass and following in suit. “‘Cowboy?’”

 

Sombra shrugs. “If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...” Her gaze falls on his chest, broad and muscled beneath his chest plate, then down to his gaudy ‘bamf’ belt buckle. Her eyes flicker down to his crotch briefly, but long enough for him notice, if he’s looking for it. “It’s probably a duck.”

 

“And what does that make you?” He says, pushing his shot glass back and forth like he’s deciding if he should get another. “Miss…?”

 

Sombra grins, and slides both of their glasses back to the bartender. She’s not quite drunk yet, but she’s getting there. A couple more complimentary drinks from Mr.Vaquero, and she won’t even care what day it is. “Veronica Hernandez,” She supplies. “And it doesn’t make me anything. I’m just a lonely girl in a bar on Christmas eve.”

 

“Hmph,” Mr. Cowboy hands her her refilled glass, and takes off his hat. He sets it on the counter beside his glass, and looks her over with warm brown eyes. “Well my name’s Joel, Ms. Veronica Hernandez. And if you’re up for it, I think I can make your night a little less lonely.”

  
  
  


Sombra stumbles out of the bar half an hour and four shots later, Joel beside her. He’d managed to convince the bartender to give them a bottle of tequila ‘for the road’, and clutches it tightly in his left hand. For a moment, Sombra is unsure of where to go; taking him back to her hotel, with all of her electronics and guns is not an option, lest he get suspicious, but she’s not exactly in the mood to do it in an alley either. Noting her questioning look, Joel nods towards one of those crappy motels down the street, the kind that’s just about as good as one of those tourist traps, but much cheaper. 

 

The cobblestone streets seem much harder to navigate with six shots under her belt, and as they cross the street in front of the hotel, her foot catches on a stone, and starts to fall. Joel grabs her waist and rights her before she hits the ground, his arm lingering around her waist despite the danger having passed. “Careful,” He cautions, as they reach the door to his room. He unlocks the door with his tequila hand, and pushes inside. “Wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours to get hurt.”

 

“You think I’m pretty?” Joel closes the door, locks the deadbolt with a resolute snap. Sombra takes the tequila from his hand, unscrews it, takes a long gulp and slams it down on the nightstand. It’s been a long time since she’s done something like this, but how casual sex works is not something one is apt to forget. Joel watches her as she saunters over, and takes his hat off. His hair is surprisingly long underneath it, she realizes, as she reaches up and knots her fingers in it. She tugs him down to her height, and whispers tauntingly, “How sweet.”

 

Joel closes the final distance between them, his breath hot against her face as he presses his lips against hers. For a moment, Sombra thinks that she’d gotten him wrong, that he’s not going to give her the rough and tough she’s looking for, but the gentleness of the kiss fades away as she tugs on his hair again. His prosthetic grips her ass, and she lifts her leg to hitch around his waist, and Joel bites her lip, teeth pressing against skin on the precipice of breaking it. She moans against his mouth, and he pulls back, tugs her shirt over her head and tosses it to the floor behind him. 

 

“This how you usually celebrate the Lord’s birthday, Veronica?” She can taste the Mezcal on his breath, hot and smoky, as he speaks. His flesh hand squeezes her tit, pinches her nipple and twists. She cries out and he grins. “By bein’ sinful?” 

 

She pushes back against him, shifting her weight so that he’s forced against the door with a satisfying thump. “Shut up,” Her voice is husky, and low. The timbre surprises her. She grabs his broad shoulders, and kisses him again on his scruffy mouth. He shifts, one treacherous knee pressing up against her core. Almost instinctively, she starts to rock against it, and her grip on his hair slackens. Suddenly, she’s moving, lifted and swung around like she weighs nothing, and her bare back is pressed against the cool metal of the door. 

 

Joel looks down at her, smirking as he reaches between them to cup one of her tits. “Why don’t you make me, little lady?”

 

“You're supposed to be making me less lonely, huh, vaquero? Go ahead and do it then.” She’d intended to be mean, to be sultry and sexy and all that shit, but she’s so breathless that it sounds like she’s begging. 

 

Joel grins at her lecherously and pins her hands above her head with his prosthetic arm. “If that’s what the lady wants,” he ducks down and takes one of her nipples between his lips, works it over between his teeth until it aches, and she’s writhing against his thigh like she’s being tortured. His other hand, his flesh hand, starts to rub lazy, slow, circles against her clit, and Sombra can’t help it-  a low moan escapes her, strangled like she’d tried to kill it while it was still in her throat. He pulls back from her tit with a wet smack, surveys her smugly before nipping at her throat. “Then that’s what the lady shall get.” He says, his voice dropping an octave or two. He slips two fingers inside of her, presses his palm against her clit and she comes, back arching away from the door, head falling back as Joel makes bruises form on the side of her neck.

 

He looks at her expectantly, as if he’s not sure what she’d like him to do next. Considerate, Sombra thinks, and chivalrous too. She doesn’t always find that in a partner, and it's not unwelcome. 

 

Sombra snatches his hat from where it lies discarded on the floor, and places it jauntily on her head. She sticks her thumbs in the waistband of her pants, and stands in a mimicry of Joel’s cocky stance. “On the bed,” She says, her words still distinctly spanish despite her attempt to mock his southern accent. “Vaquero. Shirt and pants off.”

 

If he has any objections to her suddenly taking control, he doesn’t voice them. Obediently, he starts to strip. Chestplate removed, shirt pulled over his head in that sexy way that only men know how to do. He unbuckles his belt, kicks off his boots, pauses to watch her from hooded eyes, and then climbs onto the bed. He leans back against the pillows, one knee cocked, and raises his brow,  _ now what? _

 

Sombra grins, pulls off her pants, and crawls over to him. The air conditioning unit comes on, filling the room with a soft hum. She climbs onto his lap, one hand clutching his dick, the other spread across his chest to help her keep her balance, and then slowly lowers herself. She gasps at the familiar sensation of a dick being inside her, warm and throbbing, and then starts to ride the cowboy.

  
  


The next morning, she wakes in an unfamiliar bed, her clothes folded in a neat pile on the pillow beside her. Christmas morning, she thinks, her head throbbing from her hangover. She wants to fall back asleep, relax right here, but she doesn’t know how long she’ll have before room service comes, and besides, she has associates to meet with. With a sigh, she dresses in her dirty clothes, and gets ready to leave, when she feels something stuck in her pocket. She sticks her inside and feels a piece of paper, hotel stationary, and pulls it out. Scrawled across the back of the paper is a phone number and a short message: _ If you ever want to ride a cowboy again, or just want to talk... _

 

Sombra should toss it away, leave it on the bed to be tossed out with the sheets and the remains of their night together, but she’s reluctant. Their night together… it was casual, it was a nothing, but it worked. She hadn’t felt as alone as she usually did. Maybe she’ll hold onto it for now. Doesn’t mean she has to call it, but she doesn’t want to throw it away just yet.


	2. Choices that are bad for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sombra uses Joel's number and gets a proposition from Talon that she doesn't agree with.

Data flows over her like water in a stream. Sombra can feel each megabyte running through her, stroking her nerves in a way that is incomparable to neigh anything else. Even sex cannot compare to the way that it lights her ablaze.

 

“Sombra,” Reaper’s gravelly voice rumbles in her ear. She pulls away from the stream ever so slightly, just enough to be able to understand and comprehend his words. “Have you retrieved the data?”

 

“I’m at ninety-seven percent download.” She replies. The number in the corner of her vision ticks up. “Ninety-eight.”  She corrects.

 

“You’ve got five minutes.” He tells her, and she doesn’t bother to reply. She sinks back into the data, letting the last few dregs wash over her mind before pooling into her data chips to be reviewed and deciphered later.

 

Sombra stands, stretches, her back cracking pleasurably as she walks out of the data room. She flicks her fingers as she crosses the threshold, and the power shuts off, casting the abandoned Overwatch base into darkness once more. Her augmented implants cast a somber light on the room as she passes a dusty workstation, its screen splattered with old blood. Briefly, she wonders what the story is, why this place was raided (because whoever was here did not leave willingly), but quickly brushes the thought aside. Talon tells her what they want her to know, and she does what they ask, without question. In return, she has access to their resources and reach. They’d told her to download the database, and nothing more; her curiosity is not worth the punishment it would incur.

 

“Sombra.” Reaper says again.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Sombra reaches the mouth of the base, where the foyer might have been if the walls were still standing. The dropship awaits her arrival a hundred or so feet in the air, just in range for her translocator to work. “Translocating.”

 

The feeling of her body being taken apart, atom by atom, and moved in both distance and time is well, sickening. It makes her nauseous every time, but she’s not dumb enough to show it. She straightens up and swallows her bile. “Here, Gabe.” She tosses the data chip in his direction, not caring if he drops it (she knows he won’t). “Everything that was left on those systems is in there.”

 

Reaper tucks the data chip into a fold of his robe, and walks past her without comment. He motions to the pilot to leave, and they start to rise.

 

Reaper is not much of a conversationalist, and she doubts the pilot would talk to her, even if she were interested in speaking to a grunt. Sombra slumps into a chair and kicks her legs up on the seat adjacent. She’s got five more hours til they arrive back at base. Five hours of silence and boredom.

 

The scrap of paper with the vaquero’s phone number rests in her pocket.

 

She shouldn’t. Making friends with the conquests of her one night stands is a stupid idea.

 

She plucks the scrap between two fingers, cups it in her palm like she’s holding something precious.

 

Sombra could just say hi. Some casual talk, just something to pass the time. With all of her augmentations, it’ll be impossible for him to pinpoint her location if he tried. He doesn’t even know her real name.

 

Sombra glances at the number, types it before she can change her mind.

 

 **5:38 P.M.** Hola, Joel. Still in Dorado?

 

Reaper mutters angrily to himself about Overwatch, something or other about his old Blackwatch crew, and an ingrate who’s still connected with it all. Sombra doesn’t take much notice; it’s nothing she hasn’t heard before.

 

She flicks the chat box into the corner of her vision, tells herself to ignore it as she pulls up a copy of the data she’d retrieved. The first page is a list of projects overseen by Overwatch at the time of the base’s last use. She skims the page until she comes across something interesting.

 

Overwatch projects:

 

Current:

 

 **Project name:** _Mercy_

**Caduceus staff, Valkyrie suit:**

**Project supervisor:** _Angela Ziegler_

 **Description:** _The creation and development of a battle ready medic's suit which will allow for the protection and ease of use for the medic. The Caduceus staff is a compact form for her previous nano healing technology that will allow for healing in the field, and if used within ten minutes of termination, can bring the deceased back to life._

 **Timeline:** _2-4 months until field testing._

 

**Comments:**

**Morrison:** While this would be incredibly useful, and would cut down on the amount of casualties while on missions, is using this immoral? If the use of this technology was revealed to the public, it might further sully the public’s views of Overwatch operations, especially in countries which still have a religious majority. On a more micro scale, it would also require changes within Overwatch itself, as we would then have to ask and record each recurit’s stances on the use of the Caduceus staff, as well as complete a new psychological evaluation if they respond negatively.

 

 **Reyes:** Blackwatch approves of its use on all agents.

 

 **Morrison:** Due to what reasoning?

 

 **Reyes:** The public has already damned Overwatch. We’ll be lucky if funding lasts another five years, but until then, I want to keep as many of my soldiers alive as possible.

  


Sombra’s chatbox dings, and she reluctantly looks away, and pulls up the message.

 

 **5:45 P.M.** i’m back on the road. got places to be.

 

 **5:46 P.M**. thought you weren’t going to call.

 

 **5:46 P.M.** I wasn’t.

 

 **5:49 P.M.** what changed your mind?

 

 **5:50 P.M.** Boredom. I’m at work. Traveling.

 

 **5:50 P.M.** what work do you do?

 

Sombra pauses. Saying something computer related would be too close to the truth, but she knows better than to try to pick something she knows nothing about. A good liar always incorporates a bit of the truth in their lies, otherwise it’ll fall apart at the slightest scrutiny.

 

 **5:56 P.M.** Promise you won’t tattle?

 

 **5:56 P.M.**  promise. i keep my word.

 

 **5:58 P.M.** I’m a revolutionary. I work with different groups around the globe to help with rebuilding, and to make sure everything is done equally for everyone. Not all of it is technically legal but….

 

There is quiet from Joel’s end. Sombra shoves the chat box aside, and glances back at the project file. Before she can find her spot and refocus, Reaper is standing above her, eyeless mask pinning her down like a moth to a corkboard. She slides the data aside, despite him being unable to see it, and crosses her arms.

 

“Yes, Gabe? Got something to say?”

 

He stares down at her impassively, not reacting to her petulant tone. “Talon is considering taking you on as a exclusive agent.” When Sombra does not respond one way or another, he continues. “You would be allowed access to all of our data, as well as the other privileges afforded to Talon agents.”

 

Sombra swallows. Her mouth is suddenly dry. “What’s the catch?”

 

“Smart girl.” Reaper rumbles approvingly.

 

“What’s the catch, Gabe?” She asks again. The chat window dings as another message is received.

 

“You have to complete a mission for us. A sort of test.” He pauses, pulls out a phone and flicks on the holoscreen. Sombra pulls the data onto her visuals and reads.

 

**_Mission: DQ4_ **

 

_Mission parameters:_

 

_Kidnap Efi, retrieve information on the OR16 bots. Terminate after retrieval, or if no information is given._

 

Beneath it is a list of coordinates of places she frequents, as well as pictures of the girl. Sombra has never been too good at pinpointing age, but she guesses the target is only twelve or thirteen. Barely the age she had been when she’d joined Los Muertos. She can’t kill this child. She won’t.

 

Reaper is studying her face, she knows he is.

 

She schools her face into a mask of indifference, and nods.

 

“Easy.”

 

Reaper nods, and walks back to his console, satisfied at her response. Sombra peeks up at the chat box in the corner of her visuals.

 

 **6:02 P.M.** sounds like your a hero. Makes me proud to have met ya.

 

Sombra snorts derisively, a slight note of hysteria tainting the sound. Of course he does. Of course he thinks she’s a good person. Her fingers hover over the keyboard. The mission file stares at her from her peripheral.

 

 **6:05 P.M.** I’m not a hero, Joel. Just a girl trying her best.

 

 **6:07 P.M.**  that’s all a hero has to be.

 

And despite everything, Joel’s corniness has her smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not believe how fast I wrote this...especially considering how I was planning on updating Scalded first, and posting a new chapter to some of my Voltron stories. Anyways, please read and review, and I hope you enjoy. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I have too many projects, and too many ideas. Enjoy, and remember to read and review.

 

Talon headquarters is currently based at an undisclosed location somewhere in the midst of the European wilderness. The various helicopters, airborne transports and other vehicles often used by the organization are either hidden within the building or at a second location reachable through tunnels which lead to several cities and access points located within twenty-five miles of the base. It’s hidden mostly by trees, and its stark, concrete exterior combined with the appearance of upkept abandonment gives the building a boring air that any trespasser would be inclined to ignore. 

 

Still, it should be connected to the main grid, the internet and various other trackable resources. It should be written down on some government form, somewhere. There should be some proof that the building Sombra currently lives in is real, and not just a figment of her imagination; but no matter how hard she looks, she can’t find a single sign of Talon’s presence beyond the occasional article of their terrorist actions. 

 

**Doomfist Gauntlet is stolen from the Numbani Heritage Museum.**

**_Numbani officials believe that the theft is connected to Akande Ogundimu’s escape from prison._ **

 

**Talon activity increases after downfall of Overwatch.**

**_Government officials around the world deny that the two are related._ **

 

**Rumors of connections between Vishkar and Talon are proven wrong. Man sued for slander.**

**_Sikari Black is on the run after falsifying data that Vishkar is sending funds to terrorist organization Talon._ **

 

Sombra doesn’t believe a single one of them to be true. More than likely, whoever is behind the worldwide conspiracy also has a hand in keeping Talon mostly off the radar. Whatever information these articles have are undoubtedly not true enough to be of any use to her. Those files from the previous mission- the ones about Overwatch- those might be of use; but there’s thousands of those, many of them unimportant to her studies. It would take too long to read them all on her own, and to weed out the information she needs.

 

“Have you decided on the team you would like to utilize for your upcoming mission?” Moira appears behind her in a gust of purple smoke, her hands held primly behind her back.  

 

Sombra’s office is copper plated, and surrounded by proximity sensors and hidden cameras. It should be impossible to get within ten feet of the door without her knowing, but somehow Moira always does. Even Reaper, whose unique physiology is naturally resistant to cameras and other sensors, can be picked up by the motion sensors, but Moira still manages to surprise her.

 

Sombra exhales quietly, and pulls down her screens. Despite them being a part of her neural implants, and not visible beyond her own mind, she always has the feeling that the geneticist can see them. 

 

She turns in her chair and leans on her desk, surveying her audience with a look of feigned disinterest. “It seems kinda easy. I don’t think I’ll need any help to get rid of a little girl.” Her voice is smooth and suave, like the concept of murdering a child doesn’t faze her. 

 

“Oh, nonsense.” Moira says, waving her hand. She gives an approximation of a smile, and gestures towards herself. “Even the smallest mission needs a healer on call. I would be happy to assist. Numbani is a very… diverse place, after all. You never know what could go wrong.”

 

Sombra gets the feeling that this is an order, rather than a request, despite the conversational way that Moira speaks. Moira is her superior after all, and at the top of the ladder in Talon. If she wants to come with Sombra, she will, whether or not her presence is wanted. “Well, if you insist.” Sombra aquiences. “Would you suggest anyone else, or will the two of us be enough to kill a teenage girl?” 

 

“I believe in your capabilities, and I hope that you will trust in mine.” O’Deorain bows slightly, and disappears through the open doorway in a gust of darkened mist. She stares at the place Moira was just a moment ago, and tosses a glass at the wall, feeling satisfaction when it shatters. How is she supposed to fake this shit when her superior will be there with her the whole time? She was already having trouble with this plan due to the invisibility of the organization, and lack of strings to pull, and this only makes it worse. 

 

“Shit shit shit.” Sombra runs her fingers through her hair, carefully avoiding the neural implants aligned across her scalp. She takes a deep breath, and exhales. It’s fine. She can do this. She will do this. She just needs to clear her head, and make a plan. 

 

She pulls up the chatbox with the vaquero. It hovers, half translucent against the dimly lit wall in front of her. The files spread out on her desktop turn into hazy white rectangles just beyond her focus of vision. 

 

**6:07 P.M.** that’s all a hero has to be.

 

Sombra’s fingers hover over the keyboard as considers her next few words. It’s been a day or two since that last message, and she still doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s very sweet, and very cheesy, and that’s not like her at all. She usually goes after the sarcastic, the sardonic; someone who will verbally spar with her (physically too) without being worried if she gets hurt. At first glance, Joel had seemed like that kind of guy. Or maybe he didn’t. They were both pretty drunk at the time. 

 

**12:10 P.M.** Hey Joel. You busy?

 

**12:11 P.M.** not busy enough to miss talking to you.

 

**12:11 P.M.** Are you always like this, or just around me?

 

**12:12 P.M.** keep talkin sweetheart and maybe you’ll find out

 

**12:13 P.M.** We’ll see. Are you still on the road?

 

**12:14 P.M.** always. you working?

 

**12:15 P.M.** Yeah. Revolutionaries don’t get much time to rest. 

 

Sombra wonders where he’s heading to. Trains don’t run in many places anymore. The U.S., especially the West coast still has them. Eastern Europe too. If she were to look into his IP address, she could find out. It wouldn’t even be hard. No, she decides. Let him keep his mystery. It’s more fun this way. 

 

**12:15 P.M.** I’ve got a big mission coming up soon. It can be real dirty work at times. 

 

**12:16 P.M.** You never said what work you do. It’s gotta be interesting, with all of the traveling you do. 

 

Joel still doesn’t reply. Sombra sets the chatbox aside, and pulls up those files from her previous mission. The data might be old, but if Talon wanted it, there must be something in there that she can use. She makes a list of keywords that might be of interest to her. 

 

Talon

Reyes

Morrison

Blackwatch

Ziegler

 

She pauses, and then adds Moira’s name to the list. The first result is labeled: Venice Incident. Sombra clicks on it, and skims over it’s contents. 

 

 **Affiliation:** _Blackwatch_ , special ops

**Mission supervisor:** Gabriel  _ Reyes _

**Agents deployed:** Jesse Mccree, Genji Shimada, Moira _ O’Deorain _

**Description:** Bartalotti, a known affiliate of  _ Talon _ , was the target of this mission. Agents were to quietly and quickly bring Bartalotti in on charges of terrorism, murder, and kidnapping.  It is unclear what exactly went wrong, but the mission resulted in Bartalotti’s death, as well as the reveal of _ Blackwatch _ to the public. The subsequent investigation into the members of  _ Blackwatch _ caused  _ O’Deorain’ _ s unethical research to be revealed.  _ Blackwatch  _ was shut down shortly after.

 

**Comments:**

 

**Morrison:** This mission didn’t just bring down  _ Blackwatch _ . It’s bringing  _ Overwatch _ down with it. Despite the separation of the two agencies, the UN sees the two as being inseparable, as if one entity. At the time of this report, there are rumors that  _ Overwatch _ will be shut down within the next year. 

 

**Reyes:** Sounds like you’re reluctant to take any of the blame, _ Morrison _ . 

 

 **Morrison:** _Blackwatch_ is under your jurisdiction. It’s actions are not under my control or supervision.

 

 **Reyes:** _Blackwatch_ receives it’s orders just like you do. You’re just upset that turning a blind eye all these years is finally catching up to you. 

 

**Morrison:** [Redacted]

 

There are a few pictures included, of Bartalotti’s corpse, the damage at his estates, and of the Blackwatch team before they were sent to do the job. Moira’s proud stance, and bright red hair are unmistakable, even in her youth, but ‘Reaper’ back when he was ‘Reyes’ looks like a different man entirely. His eyes are dark and serious, but his cheeks still retain the memory of dimples, of smiles from another time. She could imagine that man being happy, joking with his subordinates, having a life. What a stark difference from the Gabe that she now works under.

 

Sombra scans over the document again, and counts the keywords highlighted. All of those keywords in one document is more than she would have expected. Gabe and Moira are both working for Talon after being shut down for their methods? Even if they were both upset about their work, that shouldn’t have been enough for them to switch sides and become terrorists in the organization they were trying to bring down. Either they were on Talon’s side the whole time, or something bigger is going on here. 

 

The conspiracy. The power which runs the world from it’s throne of shadow. That’s who’s behind this.

 

_ Ding. _

 

Sombra pushes her research to the side, and pulls up the chatbox.

 

**12:26 P.M.** imma freelancer

 

**12:26 P.M.** haven’t really settled down in years 

 

**12:27 P.M.** i’m not much to settle down and wait for life to catch up with me

 

**12:27 P.M.** i’ve got tunnels ahead. Won’t be able to reply for a while

 

**12:27 P.M.** tell me how your mission goes. You sound like you can use an open ear.

  
  


Sombra smiles despite herself. He may be cheesy as all hell, but he’s sweet, and she could use more good things in her life. 

 

**12:28 P.M.** I’ll be fine Vaquero, but I’ll text you back anyways. ;)

 

She turns back to her research, and tries to put together the pieces, and suddenly, she has a plan.

 

Overwatch: Classified information blinks at the top of her page. She minimizes everything, and goes through her contacts. There are messages from various companies, including Lumico, her friend from Volskaya industries, and Vishkar; a few from crime lords, even one from an old friend from Los Muertos who still doesn’t know that Sombra is the same person they are asking her to find, and at the bottom of the page is one that she never thought she would ever have any reason to message: Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

 

She presses the call button and waits for it to dial.

 

“Hello?” A deep voice answers. The word sounds wary, cautious; just what Sombra needs. 

 

She turns on her voice modulator, and answers in a digitally altered voice. “I’ve got a proposition for you,  Pequeño mono .”


	4. The plan has been set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sombra makes a deal, a plan, and a gamble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Real life is kicking my ass, but I finally have this done! So I guess it's not all bad.

“No.”

 

Sombra’s mouth curls into a snarl. Her nail file slips onto the ground as she leans forward.

 

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I just gave you valuable information, and I’m not asking for anything in return.”  _ Yet.   _

 

Sombra has no camera connection, just audio. She can’t see who’s in the room with him, or what he’s looking at; she could play him like a fiddle with just a few visual cues, but goddamn if Athena isn’t a snitch. Everytime she gets close, Athena goes on guard, and Winston pauses, hesitant to continue talking until she pulls so far away that she’s hardly there at all.

 

There’s the sound of a wheel squeaking, and a physical keyboard clacking as he types something. “Your information is valuable, and we appreciate your honesty. However, facing Talon head on right now is not an option. We just don’t have the resources.”

 

Ah, but that’s a lie. If it’s just her,  Widowmaker, and Moira, then he’ll only need that time twit that Widow always complains about to keep her occupied, and two others to take Sombra, and her babysitter busy.

 

“You’ve got at least five people on base right now.” Sombra hates that she can’t be more accurate, but the drones she keeps sending there are continually shot down before she can get anything more than preliminary scans. There is silence on the other end, which she takes as her being close enough. “I only need three.”

 

“I can’t trust that this isn’t a trap, and I’m not willing to risk lives when we can simply remove Efi from the area.” Winston sounds endlessly patient and it's getting annoying. 

 

“That would be  _ estupidas _ .” She snaps. “They’ll know who gave the information away, and I’d be done for.”

 

“My offer still stands.”

 

“I'm not interested.” She says flatly. Overwatch doesn't have resources. Overwatch doesn't have power; not like Talon does. How can she pick at the seams of the world to find what's hiding underneath if she doesn't have the tools to do so?

 

There is silence as Sombra takes deep breaths to calm herself, her mic muted so that he cannot hear how angry she's gotten.

 

“Are we at an impasse?” Winston says, voice quiet. “If so, we can end this call now, while we are still on pleasant terms.”

 

Sombra turns her mic on once more. She doesn't want to offer this, but she has no other choice. “I can offer you a deal. A fair trade, or at least, as fair as any trade can be.”

  
  
  


The sun rises early, and Sombra ignores it, burying her head deeper into her pillow as she tries to urge herself back to sleep. She has a mission later today, but they don't leave until noon. She plans on sleeping until eleven, at the earliest.

 

Last night, she'd fallen asleep late, her mind full of plans and files for the next day's mission as she tried to troubleshoot for any possible mistakes. Sombra had tried to push it off as long as possible, but any longer would have seemed suspicious. She'd told Winston that last month, when they'd coordinated their plans. Sombra thinks it'll work, but if it doesn't… well, at least she won't live long enough to care.

 

“Sombra.” Widowmaker calls flatly as the doors slide open, letting in bright morning light. “Up. We have a meeting.”

 

“Ugh, not this early.”

 

Something hard prods her in her rib. “Up. Now.”

 

Sombra whines, but sits up, her hair falling across her eyes in matted tangles. Her makeup is smeared and messy, and she  _ feels  _ rank. 

 

“I'm up. Now leave, unless you want a stripshow.” 

 

Satisfied that Sombra is awake, Widowmaker turns, slinging her gun back across her shoulder and heads back into the hall. 

 

“Fifteen minutes.” She warns, as the doors slide shut. 

 

It only takes Sombra twelve to get dressed and presentable, but the bad mood still lingers as she grabs a cup of coffee and sits down in one of the open chairs. 

 

“I'm up,” She grumbles. 

 

“You're late.” Gabe says, his arms crossed in his usually pouty way.

 

“Well, yeah. I thought we were done with meetings.” Sombra stirs her cup idly and takes a sip. “So? What’s with the early morning wake-up call?”

 

A holo projector turns on, revealing a map of Numbani. “After our attempt to retrieve the Doomfist gauntlet, security in the city has grown much tighter than before.”

 

“We anticipated that.” Sombra finds the words easy to say, despite being scripted. Her nails tap against the side of her cup until she forces herself to stop. “So what's the problem?”

 

“There are three Overwatch agents in Numbani, apparently for civilian purposes.”

 

“But we don't buy that.” Sombra leans forward on the desk, and props her head up with her hand. “Do we have any idea what they’re there for?”

 

“Science convention. One of the few reasons the monkey ever leaves base.” Reaper’s graveled voice seems to beley a hint of annoyance. Probably hasn’t forgotten the last time they went head to head. “Tracer, and Mei-ling Zhou, a climatologist.”

 

Ah, nice choices. Somba quickly pulls up files on the three of them, and scans over them. Tracer a.k.a. Lena Oxton, she’s got a girlfriend, and hasn’t made any effort to hide it (which is dumb on her part. If the recall ever follows through, she’d be prime canidate for a Widowmaker 2.0.)

 

Mei-ling has a cute little blog about her travels. She’s a scientist through and through.

 

Sombra makes a cursory overview of Winston, but she knows his file well enough to not need it.

 

She collapses all files with a waves of her hand, and takes a sip of her coffee. There are eyes on her, but she refuses to look and see who they belong to. “You want me to postpone?”

 

“No. You will continue with the mission.” Maximillion’s voice comes out dull and bored from the speaker in the center of the table. “We’re out of time. Efi is listed as a guest speaker on day three of the convention. Releasing her OR-16 unit will set our plans back considerably.”

 

“A whole meeting just to tell me to be careful? Aww, that’s so sweet.” Sombra snarks as she stands up, and stretches. “I think my team can handle it. After all, it’s what they’re for.”

 

Moira is their head scientist, and one of the main leaders of Talon, and Widowmaker is her perfect specimen. Sombra is just a freelancer that at least half of the table doesn’t trust. When this fails, it’ll look a lot worse on Moira’s part than it will on hers. 

 

“Of course, we will succeed.” Moira says, easily stepping to the bait. She gives an approximation of a smile to the seated group as Sombra slips back outside, unnoticed, though still visible. 

 

Sombra holds her proud saunter until she returns to her room. She locks the door behind her, sets the security at the highest it can go, and collapses on her bed. She groans into her pillow, and then curls onto her side. She can’t go back to sleep now. Her nerves are all riled up, and she’s scared, though she’s loathe to admit it. If this doesn’t work, she’s dead and any chance at understanding what exactly is pulling the world’s puppet strings will be gone. 

 

She’d have to disappear- and it’s not like she couldn’t. She’s got translocators across the globe, just waiting to be accessed, but she doesn’t want to leave this behind just yet. 

 

Sombra pulls up that chatbox, the one that she never really should’ve accessed in the first place, and rereads their conversation. It’s light and meaningless, but it’s sweet. The kind of thing a younger, less cynical her might have been able to fall in love with. Her fingers hover over the keyboard as she considers what to say.

 

_ I’ve got that mission today. Wish me luck? _

 

No. It makes her seem like she cares about Joel, or his sweet words, and she most definitely doesn’t.

 

_ Think we’ll ever cross paths again?  _

 

Too wistful. She’s not that kind of girl.

 

_ Hey. Wanna fuck again sometime? _

 

It still doesn’t feel right. Somehow, it’s too vulgar; it calls her back to her real gritty life, and pulls her out of the fantasy that lives in this white textbox. 

 

**10:42 a.m.** Hey cowboy. Got that mission today. Wanna talk after?

 

Sombra stares at the textbox for a few moments, hopeful that he might reply while she still has the time to read it. He doesn’t, and she has better things to do than sit there waiting for a boy to text her back. 

 

Sombra brushes the chatbox aside, and pulls up a copy of the plan. Everything will go perfect today, she thinks. It has to.

  
  



End file.
